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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23195122">Lost In The Sauce</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedfingers/pseuds/crookedfingers'>crookedfingers</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Overwatch (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(or does it?), Amélie/Gérard mentioned, Anal Sex, Food Sex But Not SEXY Food Sex, Jack/Gabriel mentioned, M/M, Oral Sex, emetophobia warning, friends with unfortunate benefits, implied open relationship, improper lube, what happens in cape town stays in cape town</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 06:41:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,449</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23195122</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedfingers/pseuds/crookedfingers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The worst possible version of how Gérard saved Gabriel in Cape Town.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gérard Lacroix/Reaper | Gabriel Reyes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Dead Dove Events</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Lost In The Sauce</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/thereweregiants/gifts">thereweregiants</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So. Sometimes, on certain Discord servers, some people post story “prompts” that they really should not have.</p><p>This the punishment for that hubris. </p><p>You can thank <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/thereweregiants">thereweregiants</a> for the event suggestion (writing one another's most curséd ideas) <em>and</em> for this specific prompt: Gabriel and Gérard using Chef Boyardee sauce as lube in Cape Town.</p><p>If you’re not already familiar with the Chef Boyardee commercials featuring <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e33KWTJPvuU">cans of manufactured pasta stalking families to their homes</a>, go ahead and take a minute and a half of your time to watch one for reference! I’ve taken some liberties with the Chef Boyardee, uhh, lore. </p><p>And don’t worry: writing this hurt me, too.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The perimeter alarm goes off at 0117.</p><p>Gérard is sitting rigidly in front of the safe house’s bank of surveillance monitors when Gabriel gets downstairs. Hearing his approach, Gérard starts to swivel, his head lagging behind his body as he tries to keep his eye on the central screen as long as possible. “Gabriel, watch this station while I go out to—” He pauses, his eyes finally catching up to the direction he’s turning. “You’re not dressed.”</p><p>Gabriel grunts, deigning to pull the zipper of his hoodie halfway up his chest. “Well, I’m not naked.” He motions for Gérard to stay seated, reaching past him to dismiss the security alert pleading for their attention. “It’s okay, stay here. It’s just the Chef.”</p><p>“<em>Who</em>?” Gérard manages, but Gabriel is already walking toward the rear door. “<em>Gabriel</em>, don’t open the—”</p><p>Gabriel opens the door. He leans outside.</p><p>Then he comes back and places a can on the desk in front of Gérard.</p><p>The label is in perfect condition. The can, shiny and new. Chef Boyardee mini beef ravioli.</p><p>“See, look,” Gabriel says. “Only the Chef.” He claps Gérard on the shoulder and turns away, back toward the stairs. “I’m going back to sleep. You can eat that if you want.”</p><p>For a moment Gérard does not move. Then he surges to his feet, following Gabriel to the base of the stairs, the can clutched white-knuckled in his hand. “Did you plant this outside?”</p><p>“No,” Gabriel says, from halfway up the stairs.</p><p>“How did you know it was there?”</p><p>“It’s late, Gerard; I want some sleep.”</p><p>Gérard places a foot on the lowest step, gripping the can like Cain preparing to strike down Abel. His voice crackles with soft fury. “I thought someone had rolled a smoke canister up to the door. Maybe a dud, maybe not. I thought we were about to be <em>attacked</em>. If you have an explanation, I want to hear it. Not tomorrow; now.”</p><p>Gabriel stops climbing the stairs. Slowly he turns himself around on one leg, grinding the knuckles of a hand against his brow bone. “It’s—a long story.”</p><p>“We have the time, don’t we?”</p><p>They do have the time. They were supposed to have started the first phase of their operation that afternoon, but the mundane interference of bad weather had delayed Victor squad’s planned arrival into Cape Town. With the rendezvous pushed back by an estimated twenty-five hours, they’d been left to bunker down uselessly in a safe house where they’d had nothing to do but trade surveillance shifts and get on each other’s nerves.</p><p>Gabriel looks down at him. He taps his teeth together twice without opening his mouth. Then he comes plodding down the stairs, pushing past Gérard and turning the corner. “I want coffee if you’re going to keep me up. You going to take a cup or what?”</p><p>Gabriel brings a freshly-made cup of coffee—none for Gérard—and a dining chair over to the surveillance station and sits there, pushing his feet against the floor to tilt the chair back on two legs.</p><p>“The can followed me here,” he says without preamble.</p><p>Gérard sighs deeply. He leans an elbow on the desk and puts his head onto his fist.</p><p>“How did it follow you?” he asks, wearily.</p><p>“I don’t know.”</p><p>“<em>Why</em> is it following you?”</p><p>“Because I won’t give in to its, its—its designs.”</p><p>“I thought you said this was a long story,” Gérard says, with long-suffering patience. “So what’s the story? You haven’t explained anything.”</p><p>“Christ, you never stop asking questions. You want to know all about it? Fine.” He takes an aggressive slurp of coffee. “This has been going on for twenty-nine months. I was doing food supply orders with my team—things that could be stocked in our safe houses, right?—and McCree wanted to put in a request for a pallet of Chef fucking Boyardee ravioli. I said <em>no</em> because we’re fucking <em>adults</em>, but a couple days later we’re doing some work in Ankara and I see a can of ravioli on the floor where we’re staying.</p><p>“McCree said it wasn’t his, but I didn’t believe him. Thought he was trying to prove something. Being stupid. So I made him eat it and then do crunches until he puked on himself.</p><p>“It took seven weeks before I saw another can. Beefaroni. In Kathmandu. Just right on the fucking floor, like last time. McCree wouldn’t pull the same shit twice, right? I figured someone else was trying to set him up to get in trouble. So I cut everyone’s caffeine rations and put them through extra drills afterward, just to let them know it wasn’t cute.</p><p>“I thought that was the end of the joke.” Gabriel’s eyes darken. “Not even a week later there’s Chef <em>fucking</em> Boyardee lasagna at <em>headquarters</em>. Where I <em>live</em>. I thought Jack got it; that he was in on the fucking game. But Athena said no, Commander, you brought it in. I said that’s bullshit, Athena. So she sent me the security footage of the can rolling right up behind me and coming through the door with me.” He lifts the ravioli an inch off the desk and slams it back down again. “They follow me, Gérard. They’re following me. I don’t know how they do it. They’re just cans. If you open this one up, it’s just a can. There’s just fucking pasta inside. There aren’t any magnets, there aren’t any controls. I don’t know how they find me, or when they’re going to show up, but they always do. No matter where I am. Twenty-nine months of shitty pasta, Gérard.”</p><p>Gérard studies him for a long moment in silence. Then he says, “I know you’re lying because you never use that many words to tell the truth. And also because <em>that’s the most unbelievable thing I’ve ever heard</em>.”</p><p>Gabriel drops his chair suddenly back on to all four legs. “Move over.”</p><p>He pushes Gérard’s chair, rolling him to the far side of the desk, and scoots to take over his place in front of the keyboard. He enters his own access credentials and navigates until he brings up a set of saved video files. He selects a dozen of them at once, which assemble themselves into tiles that cover the screen as they open. Most of the videos have the high-contrast appearance of footage recorded outdoors at night, and most are only a few seconds long. They play in loops as Gérard’s eyes rove back and forth, trying to decipher where to look.</p><p>“See?” Gabriel points at one of the tiles.</p><p>Gérard leans forward. The video Gabriel has indicated is one of the better-lit, higher-resolution examples: a windowless hallway, artificially lit. It’s unmistakably part of headquarters. A pair of cleaning crew workers appear from the bottom edge of the screen, walking away from the camera they’ve just passed beneath. Then they turn to the right into a connecting hallway and walk out of sight. Gabriel points meaningfully at the cleaning cart that accompanies them. There’s something beneath it, mostly obscured by shadow, moving along at the same pace.</p><p>“Hmm,” Gérard says.</p><p>Gabriel glances at him for a reaction, then enlarges another one of the videos so it fills the entire main screen. This one shows an outdoor gated checkpoint on a single-lane road. A truck has pulled up to the checkpoint booth. The camera is watching from above and in front of the gate. After a moment the gate lifts, and the truck drives forward. It takes only a couple of seconds to pass beyond the camera’s view. But a small moving object remains on the road, rolling along in pursuit of the truck. Gabriel zooms closer on it. It does look, admittedly, like a can. The label has a vague familiarity to it.</p><p>Gérard leans back. He turns his head slowly away from the screen, toward Gabriel. “What evidence do you have, other than this?”</p><p>Gabriel frowns, tilting his head. “You want <em>more</em>? This isn’t enough?”</p><p>“A child could have edited this footage, Gabriel.”</p><p>“Did a child manage to edit the <em>live surveillance feed</em> you were monitoring?”</p><p>“I— No, but—” He pauses, shakes his head, and exhales. “How many people have you told about this, exactly?”</p><p>“Ha. You’re the one and only.”</p><p>“What?” Gérard’s eyebrows bounce higher on his forehead. “You made McCree vomit on himself and never told him that you’d blamed him wrongly?”</p><p>Gabriel snorts. “Of course not.”</p><p>“What about Jack? Isn’t this a, a, a security risk he should know about?”</p><p>“This is the first time one’s ever triggered an alarm. Usually they make it in without setting anything off. It’s pasta, Gérard. It’s not dangerous.”</p><p>“And you didn’t think I needed to be warned about this in advance?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“... I see.” Gérard rubs his forehead. “And you say there’s nothing unusual inside the cans? Are there any effects from eating it?”</p><p>“Jesus, Gérard, I don’t fucking <em>eat</em> it.”</p><p>“You don’t— Why not!”</p><p>“Because I don’t want to.” Gabriel pushes the can toward him. Gérard whisks his hand away before it can touch him. “Would <em>you</em> eat this?”</p><p>Gérard tucks his arms close to his body and eyes the can as though a cobra might erupt from it. “What are you doing with all of it, then?”</p><p>“Jack’ll eat it if it shows up at headquarters. But he’s getting annoyed that I keep ‘buying’ more. Otherwise I just get rid of it.” He starts to tick off fingers: “I’ve run it over, thrown it into the ocean, put it into the incinerator at headquarters, buried it…”</p><p>“That seems more reasonable than just eating it?”</p><p>“Absolutely. I’d rather get fucked with cold Chef Boyardee sauce than put it in my mouth.”</p><p>Suddenly Gabriel sits up straighter, his eyes growing round as he stares past Gérard like a man seeing the smallest speck of light after stumbling blindly through a vast black cavern. “—Wait. That could work.”</p><p>“No,” Gérard says. “<em>No</em>.”</p><p>Gabriel’s eyes lock onto his. “Gérard, you have to fuck me.”</p><p>“No!”</p><p>“This is a security matter! This is mission critical!”</p><p>“I still don’t see why you can’t just <em>eat</em> it!”</p><p>“Because that’s not what the bastard deserves!” Gabriel points an accusatory finger at the can. Chef Boyardee smiles jovially back at him, unbothered by the havoc he has wreaked upon the world. “If I have to go through Hell, so does he!”</p><p>“Can’t Jack do this for you?” Gérard asks, his voice gone faint with growing despair. “You said it could take weeks for the next one to come; surely you don’t have to do anything right <em>now</em>?”</p><p>Gabriel makes a dismissive hand motion. “I’ve already gotten him to eat a few cans. If I bring it into the bedroom, he’ll get suspicious and think that I have some kind of fucking Chef Boyardee-based fetish.”</p><p>“Well, that’s not my problem.”</p><p>Gabriel narrows his eyes. He shifts his jaw back and forth like he’s found grit between his teeth. “Okay, tell me what you want. Spit it out.”</p><p>Gérard doesn’t bother to allow an appropriately thoughtful pause to pass before he says: “I want you to approve my next holiday request. Paid time off for six weeks—”</p><p>“<em>Six—</em> I’ll give you eighteen days.”</p><p>Gérard frowns. “Five weeks.”</p><p>“Four.”</p><p>“Four weeks. Any time I ask.”</p><p>Gabriel grunts and rolls his shoulders, choosing not to speak.</p><p>“<em>And</em>—” Gérard begins.</p><p>“<em>Christ—</em>”</p><p>“The crate of wine from the Georgian president.”</p><p>“How the fuck did you even know about—” Gabriel turns his eyes toward the ceiling. Someone who didn’t know better might think he was praying. “I’ll give you half the crate.”</p><p>“Half the crate. Done.”</p><p>“Done. Good. Fuck you.” He pushes away from the desk and stands up, palming the can of ravioli. “Come put me out of my misery.”</p>
<hr/><p>Lying on the bed with one knee bent and his other arm tucked behind his head, Gabriel fingers himself in an indifferent, businesslike fashion. He’s naked, a bottle of mercifully ordinary lube resting against his hip. Gérard sits at the foot of the bed and tries not to acknowledge anything in the room.</p><p>There’s a bowl sitting ready on the bedside table. They’d drained the can of ravioli through a wire strainer, collecting a puddle of viscous, slightly cloudy red sauce. They'd left it cold. One or two ravioli had burst inside the can, allowing a few particles of beef that hadn’t been caught by the strainer to infiltrate the sauce. Gérard avoids looking at it and breathes through his mouth.</p><p>“Are you going to take off your pants or what?” Gabriel demands.</p><p>Gérard had laid down towels on the bed and then sat with his hands in his lap, uncharacteristically reluctant to contribute to the level of nudity in the room.</p><p>“I don’t see why you can’t do this on your own,” he says, stiffly. “Why do I need to be involved?”</p><p>“Can you stop being such a fucking prude? I’ll do all the work, alright? You can just lie back and think of France.”</p><p>Gabriel gathers an extra pillow behind himself, propping his head and shoulders up. He pats the center of his chest. “Come on. Come up here.”</p><p>Gérard hesitates, eyes darting around the room as though to find an escape. He wouldn’t get far by literally running, but the thought crosses his mind.</p><p>“If you don’t follow through with the deal you don’t get your vacation.”</p><p>Gérard sets his jaw and crawls higher onto the bed. Gabriel motions him closer with a tilt of his chin. Slowly, Gérard extends a leg across Gabriel’s body and kneels over his chest.</p><p>Gabriel wipes his fingers on the towel beneath him and brings both hands up to work at Gérard’s clothes, pulling first his pants and then his underwear down his thighs. Unsurprisingly, Gérard isn’t hard. Gabriel grips the back of his thigh and draws him closer still, letting Gérard’s cock brush his lips. Then he takes Gérard into his mouth.</p><p>Gérard brings both hands to the top of Gabriel’s head. Gabriel looks good with cock in his mouth, and Gérard’s eyes send signals to his groin, bypassing his brain entirely, for him to get hard. His cock responds with eager twitches as Gabriel holds him by the thigh and puts his mouth to the only good use it’s served all day.</p><p>The ministrations don’t last for long. As soon as Gabriel’s gotten him sustainably hard, he pops off and slaps his thigh, saying, “Now lie down.”</p><p>Gérard doesn’t even get the chance to follow the order of his own volition. Gabriel topples him off his chest with an easy push, reaches for the bedside table, and throws a condom onto Gérard’s stomach.</p><p>“Put that on,” he says, repositioning himself to pull Gérard’s pants and underwear all the way down his legs. He drops them carelessly onto the floor.</p><p>Then he reaches for the bowl of sauce.</p><p>Desperate to avoid the alternative—direct sauce-to-skin contact—Gérard hastily rolls the condom onto himself. He squeezes the base of his misinformed erection to keep it from wilting.</p><p>Gabriel dips a hand into the bowl.</p><p>“You’re actually going to do this,” Gérard says, waveringly. “You’re actually serious about this.”</p><p>“I want to ruin the Chef,” Gabriel says, and slathers a palmful of ravioli sauce over the condom.</p><p>Gérard makes a noise like Gabriel has slammed a fist into his gut. Mortified transfixion keeps him from looking away as Gabriel pours on another generous scoop of sauce for good measure. It runs down between his thighs.</p><p>Then Gabriel sets the bowl aside and holds himself on his knees over Gérard’s lap. Gérard grips handfuls of the bedding as though to brace himself for impending pain as Gabriel starts to sink onto his cock. A moment he would normally savor, but now it’s like a slow punishment.</p><p>Gabriel’s head rolls forward as he settles fully, a moan oozing through his parted lips. “Fuck,” he breathes, twitching his hips back and forth. “This feels incredible.”</p><p>Gabriel blinks at him. “It does?”</p><p>Gabriel’s head snaps up back upright with a derisive laugh. “No. It’s fucking disgusting. So fuck me and get this over with.”</p><p>“Well, I could have told you that!” Gérard shouts. “And you’re the one who said you’d do the work, so get to it.” He smacks Gabriel’s thigh in a show of authority.</p><p>Gabriel just snorts. He takes his time cleaning his fingers on the towel, but then he adjusts his weight and picks himself up. Lowers himself. Does it again. Gérard doesn’t want to <em>look</em>. He tries not to. But he does. He looks away again very quickly.</p><p>“I want you to know, without any exaggeration, that this will haunt my dreams.”</p><p>Gabriel puts a hand over his eyes.</p><p>“I can still <em>smell</em> it,” Gérard says, with unrestrained hostility.</p><p>Gabriel sighs deeply. Then his other hand pinches Gérard’s nose shut.</p><p>“I despise you,” Gérard says. His voice comes out nasally and unintimidating. Gabriel doesn’t answer him except with an unrepentant laugh as he starts to move.</p><p>He’s good at it, is the frustrating thing. Even with the awkward position, his hands pressing into the cartilage of Gérard’s nose and making spots of color bloom under his eyelids from the pressure against his face, Gabriel doesn’t falter in the slightest. He manages a pace that would leave Gérard breathless under the best of circumstances, let alone while his nose is blocked off.</p><p>Deprived of two of his senses, the sex is almost good, if disconcertingly wet sounding. But the notion of being tricked into enjoying something so otherwise repulsive is abhorrent. Getting more pleasure out of this than Gabriel himself would be a deplorable personal shortcoming.</p><p>Gérard paws at Gabriel’s wrist, making him release his nose, and then pries his fingers away from his eyes. He very carefully continues to breathe through his mouth as Gabriel looks curiously down on him.</p><p>Refusing to give himself time to consider what he’s doing, Gérard plunges his hand into the bowl of sauce and swiftly wraps it, dripping, around Gabriel’s cock. Gabriel shouts in outrage and slides his hips back, but he can’t go far without dismounting. Stubbornness keeps him seated in place as Gérard determinedly strokes him. Then Gabriel grabs his wrist. Gérard switches hands. Gabriel grabs his other wrist.</p><p>Gabriel is heavier than him, and unquestionably stronger, but that strength alone isn’t enough to keep him from being moved. All Gérard needs is enough leverage to move his weight. He braces his feet on the bed, lifts with his pelvis until the lower half of his torso clears the bed, and swivels his hips sideways. Poised as he is, Gabriel pitches slowly over like a mighty falling oak. He lets go of Gérard’s wrist, and one hand comes down on the edge of the bedside table as he tries to catch himself. The table pitches under the uneven addition of weight, and the bowl flips.</p><p>Sauce goes everywhere.</p><p>And so do they.</p><p>The roll turns into a fall. They splatter onto the floor, both shouting, and a blur of outraged, squelching, mutually retaliatory sex follows. To Gérard’s chagrin, he gets off. But he does, at the very least, take Gabriel down with him.</p><p>Soaked in tainted tomato sauce, they lie side-by-side on the floor and stare bleakly upward in post-coital misery. Drops of sauce have made it onto the ceiling like arterial spray. Neither of them move or speak for a long time.</p><p>Then Gérard carefully wets his lips and says, “I’m not helping with the laundry, by the way.”</p>
<hr/><p>The can is waiting for him when Gérard goes to select an evening apéritif. It catches his eye from the floor, just barely visible around the corner at the other side of the room. He freezes instinctively when he sees it, as though he has spotted a Bengal tiger prowling his home.</p><p>There’s no need to ask whether Amélie brought it there. Gérard approaches it cautiously, moving step by deliberate step until he’s close enough to bend and reach it.</p><p>Mini beef ravioli.</p><p>Gérard shudders.</p><p>“Amélie,” he calls out, after he’s steadied himself. “Have we had any visitors lately? When I wasn’t home?”</p><p>Her voice floats back to him from the other room: “Ah, <em>non</em>. Were you expecting someone?”</p><p>Gérard inhales, holds his breath for an instant, and lets it out. “Why couldn’t he have passed me something respectable, like syphilis?” he whispers to himself. Then he carefully places the can into the back of a cupboard and puts on his best smile as he rejoins his wife.</p><p>“Amélie, my dearest love, I’d like to invite Jesse McCree to dinner as soon as possible.”</p>
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